


Untitled

by primreceded



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primreceded/pseuds/primreceded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So yeah. Jared's a genie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> I'm... not going to admit how long I've had this in my WIP folder. Because it's just sad and makes me sad and it's still not done. So yep. I know where it's supposed to go and it's righthereattheend but I just can't get over that hurdle. Not sure if it's worth continuing or not, tbh. 
> 
> Warnings: Drug use, slash. WIP.

Jensen should have known something was up as soon as he stepped into his momma’s house. She had that look in her eye that meant she wanted one of her babies to help her with something. The last time she’d looked at Jensen that way he’d wound up moving a refrigerator back and forth across her kitchen while she tried to find the perfect spot, before eventually giving up and telling him to put it back where it was. He went home that night sweaty, tired and sore, carrying a plate of cookies and the guilt of not coming around to see his momma enough.

But now here he is, knee deep in dust, sorting out boxes in the basement to be thrown away or given to charity. Some of the stuff he’d never seen in all the years he’d lived at home and he can’t believe how someone could collect so much crap. Broken Christmas ornaments and bins of mildewed clothes, entire boxes filled with magazines that are older than _Josh_. He really hopes being a packrat isn’t hereditary. 

The dust is making his eyes water, they’re itchy and red and he knows they’ll be even more irritated later because of his contacts. He’s pretty sure there’s at least one bug making itself at home in his hair. The basement door opens and a cool rush of air from the a/c upstairs washes over him and goose bumps rise on his arms. His mom’s sandaled feet appear at the top of the stairs and he smiles when she comes down a little ways and he sees she’s carrying a tray of sweet tea.

He jumps up and rushes over to help her and he blushes when she coos at him for being a good boy. He sets the tray on a cardboard box and kneels back down to finish sorting through the trunk full of old photographs and trinkets. He can’t hold back the small sigh that escapes when he takes a look inside the trunk; it seems like there’s more in there now than when he started and he didn’t realize that it was going to take so long. He wants to do right by his momma, he really does. But he’s nearly thirty and he’s got his own life to live, doesn’t want to spend his Saturday locked in a musty basement.

His mother must be able to sense his irritation, she comes over and runs her fingers through his hair and he leans into her, his head against her thigh. He remembers being a little boy and resting his head in his momma’s lap for no other reason than because he could, for the comfort only a mother could give and she’d run her fingers through his hair - longer then so she’d play with the strands, twist them between her fingers. 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t want to be there, even though it’s a little more than half true. Just looks up at her, takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles before letting go and shaking his head. 

“Nothin’, Momma. There’s just a lot of stuff.”

“Spring is the time for cleaning, dear.”

“You do realize that the season lasts a couple of months’ right? You don’t have to get it all done at once.”

“I’m sorry, Jensen, am I pushing too hard?” His mother sighs and sits beside him on a box that’s been filled and taped and is ready to ship off. He can’t remember what’s inside so he’ll have to open it again to mark the box. “It’s just that with your father gone I don’t have the help I used to…”

And Jensen knows. Of course he does, it was his _dad_. Been over a year now and it’s still weird to come back home and not see his father sitting on the sofa reading the paper, to not argue Sunday night after church and supper about the latest trade on their favorite team. And he can’t pretend to know what it’s like for his mom, after all these years to lose someone you’ve loved for a greater part of your life. He just. She doesn’t need to guilt-trip him. He feels bad enough as it is. He’ll never know if he got to make his pop proud.

“It‘s fine Mom, I‘m happy to do it,” he answers after a pained silence. If his throat is scratchy and his eyes damp when he speaks well, it’s a really dusty basement. 

\---

Jensen leaves two hours later, trunk of his car dragging the ground from the load of boxes to take to Goodwill. He’d spent ten minutes saying goodbye to his momma, promising her he’d eat better and begging off Church the next day. The last thing he wanted to do was get up at ass o’clock in the morning to listen to the preacher tell him he’s going to hell. It’s not like he doesn’t already know.

The store where he’s supposed to drop the boxes off is a good ten miles out of his way so when he finally gets home it’s dark. He reaches into the backseat for his computer bag and his fingers brush over a cardboard box instead. He must have thrown it into the backseat when his trunk had gotten full and didn’t notice it when he’d dropped the other stuff off. Whatever. The store was closed now and even if it weren’t he was too tired to drive all the way back. He’d just do it in the morning. 

Sighing he gets out of the car and hauls open the backseat. His computer bag had fallen into the foot well and he slips the strap over his head before hefting the box out. Whatever is inside isn’t really heavy and there’s something loose that sounds like glass rattling around. He’d just as soon leave it in the car but he doesn’t exactly live in the greatest neighborhood (and that’s a lecture he’d rather not hear again, fuck you very much), he doesn’t want to wake up in the morning to a busted window because of a box full of junk. 

He kicks the door shut and makes his way into his building. There’s no elevator, _of course_ , so he climbs the two flights of stairs to his apartment and nearly drops the box trying to fumble his keys from his pocket. He finally gets the door open and plops the box down before kicking off his shoes and making his way towards the kitchen for something to eat. It’d been a long day and he’s not really in the mood for a big meal, so after a quick sandwich and a glass of water he pads his way into his bedroom where he strips down to his boxers and collapses onto his bed. He’s asleep within seconds.

 

When Jensen wakes up the next day his mouth tastes like ass and his sheets are gritty from all the dust that caked itself onto his skin. It probably wasn’t his brightest idea to fall asleep without hosing himself down first but he has to admit he’s pretty refreshed. It had been a long time since he’d gotten a full night’s sleep and he’d almost forgotten what it was like to wake up and not want to burrow back under the covers. 

He heaves himself out of bed and pads barefoot down the hall to the kitchen, scratching idly at his belly. He sets up the coffee maker, enough grounds for at least five cups before wandering back towards the bathroom. His answering machine light is blinking and that’s a little unnerving, having slept through the phone ringing. He doesn’t bother listening to the message, though. Probably just Chris or his mom giving a last ditch effort to get him to church.

Jensen’s stomach grumbles loudly and when he looks at the clock he sees how late it really is. It’s nearly noon, he must have been more exhausted than he realized, he doesn‘t even remember moving an inch the entire night. He sets the coffee pot before heading to the front door to check his mail. Lately it’s only ever been bills or turn off notices because he didn’t _pay_ his bills and today is no different. 

He doesn’t remember the box is there, too occupied with cursing out his electric company, and it’s not until he slams into it with his bare foot that he notices it’s presence. The mail hit’s the hardwood with a quiet _swat_ when he throws it down in favor of clutching his foot. His toe is turning a deep purple and it stings where the blood vein has busted, but it doesn‘t feel broken. 

He scowls down at the box before piling the mail into it and dragging it over to the couch to sift through after breakfast, the bottles inside clank and rattle from the movement. He leaves it there for the moment and he heads back into the kitchen to grab his coffee and a bowl of cereal. There’s just enough milk to cover his Lucky Charms and he tosses the empty jug into the garbage can before tucking into his meal. His mother would probably lecture him to death if she could see him, leaning against the counter with milk dribbling down his chin. But he’s a grown man and most importantly, his mother isn’t around, so no one judges him when he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. 

Jensen dumps his dishes into the sink and heads back to the living room to plop down on his sofa. There are a couple of old worn out paperbacks sitting atop the other junk, S.E. Hinton’s _The Outsiders_ with the spine broken into two pieces that hurts him to see and he sets them aside to go over later. As a writer he hates the idea of books going to waste, or being thrown out. 

He sifts through the rest of the box, shoving broken mugs out of the way, one of Mackenzie’s old dolls that used to eat and piss itself (and is still as creepy as Jensen remembers) stares blankly up at him and he scowls before turning it ass-up so it’s no longer looking at him. Most of what’s in there can be tossed out come pick up day for the garbage but at the bottom there’s something glass and blue and he wraps his hand around it to tug it out.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, setting the glass bong on the table in front of him. He can’t believe that thing has been in his parents basement this whole time and he never knew. He could have been getting high _all the time_. 

He grabs his phone from the coffee table and punches in Josh’s number. It rings a few times and finally his brother answers, sounding out of breath. 

“Jensen?”

“Josh, man tell me this is your bong I found in Mom’s basement.”

“If I say yes will you get your ass over here?”

“What?” Jensen leans back on the couch, curls his bare toes into the carpet beneath them and stretches till his back pops and he feels weightless against the cushions. He can hear people talking in the background on Josh’s end of the line, kids laughing that don’t sound like his nephew and.

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Josh, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how tired I was after coming from mom’s yesterday and I overslept.”

“I don’t want your excuses Jensen, just get your ass here so he’ll stop asking me where you are.”

Josh hangs the phone up and Jensen tosses his cell back onto the coffee table before heading upstairs for the quickest shower and dress of his life. He’d already gotten the kid a present, so he didn’t have to waste more time stopping for that but he did shove a couple of twenties into the card to make up for his tardiness. Josh’ll probably kill him for giving a four year old that much cash but he doesn’t care; his nephew is pretty much the greatest thing in his life - not to mention the one person he can stand to be around for long periods of time - and he feels like an asshole for forgetting the kid’s birthday. 

Luckily Josh only lives fifteen minutes away and when he gets to his brother’s house he’s pleased to note that he’s only about an hour late. They haven’t gotten to the gifts or cake yet, and when he heads to the backyard there’s still plenty of action going on and kids screaming their brains out. He drops the gift bag off onto the table piled high with other presents before making his way over to his brother. 

“Well look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

Jensen ignores his brother in favor of giving his sister-in-law and mother a hug before plopping down onto the picnic table bench next to Mackenzie. 

“Leave your brother alone, Joshua,” his mother chastises and Jensen sticks his tongue out at his brother behind her back. “When you’re not late for your own son’s birth then you can say something.”

His mom pats Josh on the shoulder as she passes him by to go talk to Mrs. Grandier and the rest of the table breaks out into laughter at his brother’s expense when she’s gone. 

“I hate all of you,” Josh grouses. 

Logan chooses that moment to hurl himself into Jensen’s lap, a bony four year old knee coming very close to doing some serious damage but the kid’s oblivious as he screams a hello in Jensen’s ear.

“Uncle Jensen! You came!” 

“Of course I did, kid. You think I’d miss out on cake?”

Logan giggles and jumps off of Jensen’s lap, landing on Jensen’s foot before hauling ass across the yard and back to his friends. Jensen curses colorfully under his breath as he rubs the hurt away through his sneaker. 

“That kid is going to land me in the hospital before he’s ten.”

The rest of the party goes by without incident, save for Josh smacking him upside the head after Logan opens his presents and flashes the forty bucks for all to see. It’s worth it though for the look on the kid’s face. 

Jensen’s sitting at the picnic table sharing a hunk of cake with Mackenzie. All the kids have gone home and Logan’s passed out in his pile of gifts while his mother and father clean up the mess from his party and the other adults pick at the left over food, chatting in hushed voices over cups of coffee. 

Uncle Charlie extracts himself from the tiny lawn chair he’d stuffed himself into and stumbles over to Jensen’s table. He’d seen his uncle sneaking sips from a flask kept hidden in his pocket throughout the day. Josh had pulled him aside at one point to tell him to stop or he’d have to leave but apparently he didn’t listen and he is well past drunk when he plops down onto the bench. 

“So, Jensen,” the older man’s voice is loud and slurred and Jensen winces while Josh throws him a dirty look and goes to pick up Logan to bring him inside before he gets woken up. Jensen watches him go, wishing he could follow. 

“Your mother tells me you’re still pretending to be a writer.” 

“I’m not pretending, Uncle Charlie.”

Jensen drops his fork, suddenly not in the mood for cake, and Mackenzie pushes the plate away. She squeezes Jensen’s knee reassuringly before standing and going over to their mother who’s watching them carefully. 

Charlie pulls his flask from his shirt pocket again, screws off the cap and takes it to his lips, but it’s empty. He frowns down at it in his hand, eyes glassy and unfocused. He’s been messed up ever since Jensen’s father died, and Jensen can’t remember the last time he was ever a hundred percent sober. He’d once been a god fearing man, went to church every Sunday and sat next to his baby brother, and now he’s just the town’s drunk.

“Maybe you should lay offa that for a while, huh?” Jensen says, giving a nod to the flask.

“Maybe you should mind your own damn business,” Charlie narrows his eyes at Jensen across the table and Jensen can feel himself flush, has to look away from the intense gaze, stares at his hands in his lap instead. 

“You know your father wanted better for you, and he’d be ashamed. Living the lifestyle you do.”

There’s a loud smack and Jensen jerks up to see his mother standing by his uncle looking infuriated while Charlie holds his cheek.

“I’m going to have to ask you to never speak to my son like that again,” her voice is calm and Jensen swells with pride for her. 

He sneaks a glance at his uncle and the older man is staring up at Jensen’s mother wide-eyed and shocked with a reddened handprint growing on his cheek and Jensen has to bite down on his tongue to keep from grinning at the sight. From the angle they’re in she must have backhanded him but good and Jensen wishes he’d have kept his head up. 

“Donna, I’m --”

“I think it’s time for you to go, Charles. Since you’re not fit to get behind the wheel of a vehicle it looks like it’s up to me to take you home. Go wait in the car while I say my goodbyes.”

Charlie doesn’t protest, just climbs from the table and makes his way through the backyard to the front of the house where Jensen’s mom’s car is parked. Jensen takes the opportunity to grin up at his mother, who’s steadfastly doing her best to ignore everyone behind her. 

“That was _awesome_ ,” Megan whispers and Jensen nods his agreement.

Jensen stands and goes around the table to give his mother a hug and when they pull apart she’s got tears in her eyes. She places her hands on his cheeks and tilts his face to look at her. 

“You’re a good boy, Jensen. Your father would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

Jensen knows that. It’s taken him a long time to come to terms with who he is and what he’s done with his life, but he knows his father, and he knows that what Charlie said was a bunch of bullshit. But sometimes it’s nice to hear. 

“I know, Mom.” 

She pats his cheek before letting him go and giving Megan a hug. After she’s gone he and Megan collapse into a fit of giggles that last until Josh comes out to tell everyone to get the fuck out of his yard. 

==

Jensen doesn’t bother turning on any lights when he slams his way into the house. There’s enough light coming through the windows from outside that he can see his way to his desk and once he opens his laptop that’s all he’ll really need anyway. 

His uncle’s words had echoed in his head the whole ride home. When Charlie had asked him if he was still pretending to be a writer, Jensen had found it very difficult to set the man straight. He hasn’t written anything of substance in nearly a month. There’d been a fluff piece for some short story magazine, just to keep his agent off his back, but other than that he’s sat staring at a blank screen. The desire is gone, and that worries Jensen. 

As the computer boots he heads to the kitchen to grab a beer and then settles back into his office chair. He’s just fired up enough that maybe he’ll be able to manage something tonight, finally. He opens up a folder to poke through his documents and after a few minutes he settles on one. It’s one that’s still fresh, that he’s still familiar with and after rereading what he’s already gotten done he starts writing. 

Two hours and only three hundred new words later Jensen sits back, unsatisfied and frustrated. He scrubs a hand over his face and pushes away from his desk to stand and start pacing around the room. 

He’s never been this blocked for this long before and it pisses him off. He doesn’t know what’s happened, like he just woke up one day without a story to tell, and nothing he does seems to break through the block. He’s tried so many different exercises and he’s always come up empty handed. Now not even the threat of being a failure to his family seems to be enough to penetrate through to his muse. 

Sighing, he stops pacing and plops down on the couch instead. He knows he’s going to have to come up with an excuse to fend off his agent, that she’s waiting for the “next big thing” but he doesn’t think it’s going to happen. Maybe there’s something they can work out with the publishing company; an extension or, worst case scenario, break his contract altogether. He’ll save that as a last desperate act of a drowning man though, there’s no way in hell he wants to give up what he worked so hard for. 

Resigned to not be writing for the rest of the night he considers calling Chad up for a night of some form of drunken debauchery. There’s nothing like a Tequila to make you feel better, or at least forget why you never drink Tequila. But after the day he’s had he’s not really in the mood to surround himself with a bunch of plastered strangers. 

The bong catches his eye where it sits on the coffee table, having almost forgotten about it in his annoyance. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but right now he really doesn’t give two shits about anything other than de-stressing. There’s a bag of weed in his dresser, tucked away behind his socks and boxer-briefs. A Christmas gift from Chad. He may be a cheap bastard, but Jensen knows the shit’ll be good and he runs up to his bedroom to fetch it, along with a lighter. 

After grabbing a cup of water from the sink in the kitchen he gets comfortable on the floor in front of the couch, legs spread out before him beneath the coffee table that he’s pulled up to his chest for easy reach. He makes quick work of it all and before he knows it he’s lying on his back and giggling quietly, counting the points the plaster makes on the ceiling.


End file.
